


A Good Thing

by Amelia_Clark



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Fluff, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Hand Jobs, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Martha Stewart - Freeform, Pie, Poor Sam, Unresolved Culinary Tension, decorative gourds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-14 02:31:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16031135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelia_Clark/pseuds/Amelia_Clark
Summary: Dean wakes abruptly from a dream where he's Yogi Bear to the scent of pie wafting through the bunker.In which Dean has a long-overdue epiphany, and makes a mess of the kitchen with Cas.





	A Good Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Happy tenth anniversary to our favorite couple of dumbasses! This isn't an anniversary fic per se, but I couldn't let the occasion go unmarked. Inspired entirely by a snide comment to [pitytheviolins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pitytheviolins/pseuds/pitytheviolins) on Twitter.
> 
> Minor warning for Dean's bad alcohol decisions.

Dean wakes abruptly from a dream where he's Yogi Bear to the scent of pie wafting through the bunker.

No, that's not quite right. He digs sleep crud out of the corners of his eyes and takes a more deliberate sniff. It's pie _crust,_ not the whole shebang just yet, and it smells homemade. In his dream, that buttery, golden aroma had lifted him off his feet and beckoned him onward through the copy-pasted trees of Jellystone Park, with a distressed Boo Boo trotting behind, warning him not to be reckless.

He thinks, in the dream, Boo Boo sounded a lot like Cas.

“Goddammit,” he mutters, passing a hand over his face like he can wipe away his sudden flush of embarrassment. Too many Doritos past midnight, that's all, no need to go interpreting anything. He grabs his dead-guy robe off the floor next to the bed and shrugs it on, sets off to go investigate who the hell is making pie crust in his kitchen.

He argued with Cas last night. He can't quite remember how it started. Cas pissed him off somehow, didn't make more coffee after he drank the last of it again, maybe—some dumb shit like that. It wasn't anything that warranted how bad that argument got, he remembers that much; but the fight dragged on for goddamn _hours,_ neither one of them would let it go, and whatever set it off, their entire fucked-up history's worth of baggage spilled ugly between them before it left off. There was a lot of yelling, and pounding on tables, and even a little shoving. Finally, around two, Dean had stomped off to his room with a family-size bag of Doritos clutched angrily in one fist. He polished off every last orange crumb, washed it down with Hunter's Helper, and passed out in his boxers and one sock on top of the sheets.

The kitchen smells incredible, the mellow comfort of the pie crust joined by the subtler glow of sugar and the spicy harshness of uncooked vanilla and—“Is that bourbon?” he wonders aloud, and the figure crouched in front of the oven door stands up and turns around.

Cas is in his shirtsleeves; they're rolled up to his elbows to stay out of the way and his forearms are tanned the color of honey, corded with muscle. “Bourbon and maple syrup. It's a Martha Stewart recipe.” His voice is raspier than usual, jagged after shouting himself hoarse at Dean yesterday. “Good morning, Dean.”

Of course it's Cas. Dean probably knew this on some level, even if it makes no goddamn sense—he can't even taste things all angeled up, just molecules or whatever. It wasn't gonna be Sam, obviously, not with butter and refined sugar in the mix, and he didn't know of any monsters whose MO was stealth desserts, either. Nope, had to be Cas. In Dean's kitchen, the morning after they fought like cats and dogs, baking a goddamn pie.

“The hell you doing here, Cas?” he asks. Cas flinches. Ain't _that_ ironic, when Cas has beat the shit out of him more than once: Dean can't lay a hand on Cas if he bothers to defend himself, but Dean sure knows how to hurt him. Cas's greatest fear is that Dean will kick him out again, like he'd done when Cas was fallen and vulnerable years ago—which is bullshit because he's the one who's always leaving, Dean had told him as much last night.

He clears his throat. He might be a little hoarse too. “Why're you here in the kitchen, making pie at eight in the morning, dude, 's all I meant. It's not—I didn't mean any more than that.”

Cas looks at him for a long moment, long enough to make Dean uncomfortably aware that he's only got boxers on under his robe. Which makes his mind flash to places it's not supposed to go, especially with Cas _actually present_ ; he's never been quite sure how deep angel perception goes, whether Cas can literally read his thoughts or just sense his emotions like that chick from TNG. Either possibility is terrifying. 

“I believe the term is 'peace offering,'” Cas says finally. “I tried to buy you pie once before, and the store was out.” His eyes flick to the side and back in a way that can only be described as shifty. “And, uh, then I was diverted by Metatron. So I thought when I tried again, I should remain here to ensure success—success in obtaining the pie, not your forgiveness, I understand that's not something I can compel.”

Dean blinks, because this is honestly not what he expected—he didn't know _what_ to expect, but it damn well wasn't Cas taking the blame for a fight Dean's 100% sure he started. “Coffee,” he manages. “I need coffee for this conversation.”

“I made a fresh pot,” Cas says quietly, and Dean cringes. It did start like that, then. _What the fuck is wrong with you, Winchester_ , he chides himself, _he's an angel, not your goddamn barista._

“Thanks,” he says, too gruffly, and feels Cas watch him all the way to the mug cupboard, to the coffee maker, to the bourbon left open on the counter. “Cas, man,” he says as he adds a breakfast-appropriate amount of booze to his morning java, “there's nothing to forgive. We just—I'd rather just forget it, okay? It was my fault anyway.” _Like always,_ he thinks as he sips. Dammit, he definitely skimped on the bourbon, but he can't go back for the bottle again now.

“All right,” says Cas after a moment.

“All right?” It can't be that easy, can it? But Cas shrugs at him, stoops to peer critically through the oven's dingy window.

“All right, we'll forget it, it's forgotten. Come over here and tell me if this crust looks golden brown to you.” 

“Uh, okay.” He joins Cas at the oven; its window is pretty small in addition to needing a good scrub (and _that_ sounds like Sammy work), so they're right up in each other's space, Cas's rolled-up sleeve pressed against Dean's elbow. It takes longer than it should for him to focus on the damn pie. “Needs another five, ten minutes, you're good.” He risks another gulp of Irished coffee, even though it's still too hot. “So blind baking, huh? Pretty advanced move for a novice.”

Cas half-smiled, pleased that Dean's proud. “I read online that it was the most foolproof method for ensuring a crisp crust. Well." He frowns. "According to some sites, others weren't in favor. I did not expect there to be so much controversy regarding the proper procedure for making a pie. Or that it was once considered to be such a valuable skill as to render the baker a worthy mate for matrimony."

Dean chokes on a sip of coffee he's not taking and stands up suddenly, laughing to cover a cough. If the thought of Cas baking him a pie as an apology makes his stomach lurch, the idea of its being some sort of... _proof of marriageableness_ makes his guts dissolve altogether, dizzy warmth spinning down to his toes. "Uh, yeah,” he fumbles, “finding recipes online can be a pain in the ass, you gotta find people you trust. Martha won't steer you wrong, though. And she was a fox when she was younger! Hell, she's still lookin' good in her seventies." _That's it, Dean, deflect those gay thoughts towards the nearest chick, just like we practiced._

"She's very elegant," Cas agrees, squinting into the oven again. "Her website had some intriguing ideas for decorating with fall gourds."

Dean looks down at him—Castiel, Angel of the Lord, who Dean met in Hell and searched for in Purgatory and feared as ruler of Heaven, who is currently watching a pie crust bake like it's the most important thing in the universe—and the motherfucking _decorative gourds_ are just too much. He ain't made of stone.

And so he drops to his knees on the kitchen floor, and he kisses him.

Cas doesn't respond for the space of a heartbeat, but when he does, it's almost frantic; he licks Dean's mouth open, grabs him by his lapels and practically hauls him into his lap, sending his full coffee cup clattering over the tiles. It spills all over Dean's hand, and he swears around Cas's tongue. Cas hums in apology and skims his fingers over the sting, soothing it away with a scrap of Grace that makes Dean's teeth buzz for a second.

Even in Dean's dreams, they never get this far; they'll nearly kiss, come closer than they ever do awake, and then something always gets in the way: a monster, a phone call, his giant cockblock of a baby brother. And Dean would wake up frustrated and hard—how fucking repressed was he, that he couldn't even score with Cas in his subconscious?

So he knows this isn't a dream, however unlikely it seems that after something like a _decade_ of wanting Cas like this, he'd actually go for it when no one was dying. 

Cas tugs Dean up to standing before backing him into the counter and slipping both hands beneath his robe; Dean cuts to the chase and just unties the damn thing, opens it to fold Cas in. Should he say something? He should probably say something. This is kind of an important thing they're doing, and—

“Dean,” Cas growls into his neck. “Don't you dare talk yourself out of this. Stop thinking so much and touch me.”

“But it's—shouldn't we talk about this?”

“Later,” Cas says, grinding his hips into Dean's so Dean can't possibly miss how hard he is. “Over pie, after I've made you come.”

“Good point,” gasps Dean—like he said, he ain't made of stone. So they make out against the kitchen counter, Dean's coffee breath be damned; Dean unbuttons Cas's shirt, fumbles his belt open. Cas's hands are restless on his skin, like he has to touch every square inch, until he gets to Dean's dick and lingers, pressing his thumb against the head through the fabric of his underwear. “Oh holy shit,” Dean groans. He tries to spread his legs wider and Cas lifts him up onto the counter instead. Dean's not prepared for it; caught off balance, he flails out a hand to steady himself, and knocks over the bowl of pie filling.

“Goddamn it,” he mutters, shaking his hand, but the goop doesn't come off, of course. He's working up a rage about being interrupted _again_ when Cas takes his hand and starts licking it off of him.

Part of Dean remembers there's raw eggs in pecan pie filling and panicking about salmonella, but then there's Cas's mouth, and his hand slipping into Dean's boxers, and his dick against Dean's thigh. And those are all arguments for jerking each other off while they eat custard off Dean's fingers, so Dean goes in for another dollop and works Cas's fly open with his other hand.

Dean comes first, and feels hopelessly human.

Once Cas comes with a cry on Dean's soft stomach, he bends down to lick that up too, and Dean just manages not to grab his hair with sticky hands. Dean catches his breath before hopping down from the counter and finding the paper towels. They made a hell of a mess: coffee's all over the floor, the handle of Dean's mug is in five pieces, and there's kind of a lot of pie filling dripped onto the counter and the sleeve of Dean's robe. It's gonna have to be washed; in the meantime, he's gonna stink like a distillery till he can change clothes.

They've just finished cleaning up, both disheveled but dressed, when Dean realizes the heavenly scent of the baking pie crust has turned to ash. Cas says something in Enochian that sounds like a cuss and flings the oven door open; a demon's worth of smoke pours out, and Dean backs up, coughing. 

And _that's_ when Sam “Timing Is Everything” Winchester walks in and asks, “Hey guys. Is someone baking a pie?”

“Good morning, Sam,” Cas says calmly, and thank Chuck he's taking the lead, because Dean doesn't have his whole vocabulary back yet. “I intended to bake a pie, but I burned the crust. I'm sorry.”

“There's no pie?” Sam says, betrayal in his voice. 

“Nope.” Dean wonders if he could get away with tucking his stained sleeve behind his back until Sam leaves. “Beginner's bad luck, I guess. Told Cas to set a timer next time.”

“There's no pie. I couldn't fall asleep forever cause you assholes were yelling, and I woke up and I smelled pie, and you're telling me you made me think there was gonna be pie and then _there wasn't pie?_ Unbelievable.” Sam stomps over to the coffee maker and pours himself a cup, leaves the kitchen muttering before either of them can get a word out.

“Shit,” says Dean.

“Yes. I'm sorry to disappoint him.” Cas smiles, one of the rare ones with both sides of his mouth. “But I'm glad he didn't notice the bite mark on your neck.”

Dean laughs and kisses him. He tastes so sweet.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [fic Twitter](http://twitter.com/ameliaclarkfic) now! Join me?


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